There was
certainly some excuse for his momentary absorption. The morning, although
it was late September, was perfectly fine and warm. The cattle in the park
which surrounded the house were already gathered under the trees. In the
far distance, the stubble fields stretched like patches of gold to ridges
of pine-topped hills, and beyond to the distant sea. The breakfast table
at which his wife and daughter were seated was arranged on the broad grey
stone terrace, and, as he slowly approached, it seemed like an oasis of
flowers and fruit and silver. A footman stood discreetly in the
background. Half a dozen dogs of various breeds came trotting forward to
meet him. His wife, still beautiful notwithstanding her forty-five years,
had turned her pleasant face towards him, and Ella, whom a great many
Society papers had singled out as being one of the most beautiful
debutantes of the season, was welcoming him with her usual lazy but wholly
good-humoured smile.
"Daddy, your habits are getting positively disgraceful!" she exclaimed.
"Mother and I have nearly finished--and our share of the post-bag is most
uninteresting. Please come and sit down, tell us where you are going to
shoot, and whether you've had any letters this morning?"
Lord Ashleigh loitered for a moment to raise the covers from the dishes
upon a side table. Afterwards he seated himself in the chair which the
servant was holding for him.
"I am going out for an hour or two with Fitzgerald," he announced.
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